Today I’m going to take you somewhere
you never want to go. Don’t fret; just reading about it
won’t hurt you. Besides, it’s the only painless way to
peep inside. A brief visit to this place can be humiliating.
Spending your life there has to be pure hell. Last month, I went inside three
maximum-security “correctional centers” — the
optimistic euphemism that replaced “penitentiary” in
1973. I doubt that any tour company offers a prison package, but
the three historic joints I visited look architecturally awesome,
from the outside. The most modern is Dwight, called the Oakdale
Reformatory for Women when it was built in 1930. The campus covers
100 lushly shaded acres in a rural area along Interstate 55. Menard, built in 1878, is some 50 miles off
the beaten path, in Chester, where the prison squats along the
banks of the mighty Mississippi. A swath of railroad tracks busy
with freight trains ensures the inmates won’t get to enjoy
the spectacular river view. Pontiac, on the other hand, is hidden in plain
sight. No signs remind motorists of the appropriate interstate exit or
hint at which residential street dead-ends at the prison’s front
gate. Built in 1871 as the Boys Reformatory, Pontiac looms over a
landscape of gingerbread houses so neighborly, you have to wonder
whether the gatehouse guards hand out popcorn balls or candy apples to
trick-or-treaters at Halloween. But no matter how picturesque the prison, you
can’t park on the property without realizing that
you’re in Slammerville. Just driving onto the lot means that
you consent to having your vehicle searched. Once you’re
buzzed into the gatehouse — with a metallic thwack! so sharp
that you check to see if you’ve been shot — it becomes
much more personal. First you have to present proper
identification, which usually (but not always) means a
driver’s license and Social Security card. While the officer
hunts-and-pecks your data into a computer, you can stash all your
taboo toys in a 50-cent locker. “You might as well put your
whole purse in there. It’s full of contraband,” a guard
tells me after reaching into my handbag and finding a pack of
sugar-free Wrigley’s. Chewing gum isn’t allowed in
prison, not even for the guards. It’s messy, it can be used
to clog locks, and it might discourage smoking. Most jewelry is also verboten. Visitors are
allowed one watch, one ring, one matched pair of earrings, and one
necklace — as long as it isn’t a locket and
doesn’t display letters, such as a monogram. No bracelets. What about anklets? “No bracelets of any kind!” the
guard at Menard barks. Actually, I don’t remember having to
remove my bracelets at Dwight, which is possible because
there’s a bit of whimsy in each prison’s application of
the rules. For example, at Dwight and Menard I was allowed to carry
my notebook with me, whereas at Pontiac spiral binding is banned.
At Dwight and Pontiac, I was allowed to use my colorful Uni-Ball
pens, but at Menard I had to take notes with a prison-issue black
Bic ballpoint. Also at Dwight and Pontiac, a female officer
took me into a closet and made me remove my shoes and display the
bare soles of my feet. The officer then patted me down, checking
for wire in my bra. I don’t know what would have happened if
I’d been caught wearing an underwire (instinct told me not to
risk it), but I’ve heard of a lawyer who got off with an
admonition — “You need to get yourself a prison
bra!” — and an inmate’s sister who was handed
snippers and ordered to cut the stays out. The only place in which I wasn’t
personally monitored was Menard, where I interviewed two convicted
killers and a third felon, who, having been acquitted of attempted
murder is doing 30 years for aggravated battery with a firearm
instead. The guard delivered these homicidal maniacs to me one by
one, then shut the door, leaving me alone with a guy who could
easily have ripped the spiral binding from my notebook and twisted
it into . . . an illegal bangle bracelet. Really, though, I shouldn’t complain.
Some guards gave me special treatment. At Dwight, an officer
spotted me two quarters for the locker. At Menard, they let me in
with no pat-down. There seems to be a pecking order for prison
visitors — law-enforcement guys at the top, kinfolk near the
bottom. I got the feeling that my status as a reporter ranked me
lower than a defense attorney but a step above the inmates’
babies’ mamas. A friend of mine who was once a warden
assures me there’s a reason for every rule — such as no
wigs, because visitors have smuggled contraband inside under fake
hair. Though I truly believe him, I also know that the rules
chipped away at my dignity — and I was just dropping in for a
visit. Imagine living there.
This article appears in Oct 6-12, 2005.
